Vincenzo ladled the first spoonful of traditional Minestra di Lenticchie, still steaming with the rich warmth of the stew.Before bringing it to her lips, he broke off a piece of Sicilian bread, its golden crust crisp and its soft interior yielding, dipping it slowly into the hot broth.Then he offered the spoon with the soaked bread to Vittoria, the gesture carrying more than mere nourishment.“Open your mouth, amore,” Vincenzo urged, his tone soft, almost pleading, as if that simple act held his way of ensuring she stayed strong, nourished, and safe.Vittoria let out a quiet laugh, shy at his unexpected tenderness, but complied. The simple, homely flavor spread through her mouth, warming more than her body; it warmed her soul.“Is it good?” he asked, watching every nuance of her expression.“It’s perfect,” Vittoria whispered, her eyes shining more from his caring gesture than from the soup itself.He reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, and pressed a lingering
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